Dead Iron (26 page)

She first put the bucket of water down by his head where the bowl had been.

“That’s water for you, Mr. Hunt,” Mae said. “It’d do you good to drink your fill.”

The wolf opened his eyes, but just as soon closed them again. He hadn’t moved.

“I’m going to wash your wounds, what I can, at least,” she continued. “I’ll thank you not to struggle, but if you do, I’m not afraid to use my gun.” She knelt with the basket on one hip and the gun in the other hand.

Still, Cedar did not move. “I’ll be talking so you remember it’s me here doing what I can to ease your pain. Do not bite, do not scratch, and do not fight me, Mr. Hunt. Neither of us wants to see the other dead this night, I’d presume.”

Mae placed one hand on the beast’s side. He did not move, did not twitch. Whatever the Strange and wolf had done to him, it had wounded him deeply. Deep enough that even the wolf instincts could not make him fight her.

His fur was long and bristled on top, but beneath that, it was thick and warm. She smiled despite the weary weight of the night on her shoulders. She had never touched a wolf before, never felt a living heat, a pulse, beneath such fur.

Though she found herself wanting to savor the sensation, she didn’t let her fingers linger long. Instead, she began ascertaining his wounds.

The puncture between his ribs was deep and wide. It looked as if a torch had been thrust into his bones. The fur was burned and matted with blood, his flesh curled back and blackened. There seemed to be an oil of some sort on the edges of the puncture, and blood and other fluid welled from it.

Deep, that was sure.

“This isn’t so bad,” she said, keeping her voice calm. “First I’ll wash it out. The water will be cold.” She tucked a towel against his stomach and rested her gun over her knee where she could catch it up quick if she needed it. Then she poured a cup of water over the wound, holding it open with her fingers as she did so.

He whimpered, a faint hurt sound in the back of his throat, but did not move.

The water welled out of it, bringing up with it a skittering of black bugs that swiftly died and liquefied into oil.

Mae rose up quickly and traded the water for a jug of whiskey. Whatever Mr. Shunt had broken off in Cedar, it had turned into creatures that crawled, and likely bit and bred inside his flesh. If she didn’t kill them quick, and clean the wound thoroughly, they might just nest inside him and eat him from the inside out.

Mae kept talking. “That’s good, Mr. Hunt. I know it’s a deep wound and it hurts, but I’ll be able to ease some of the pain and burn. First, though, you’ll feel fire.”

She knelt again and opened the wound with her fingers, pouring the alcohol into the wound. Cedar whimpered and growled, but still didn’t move, as if even that much sound exhausted him.

She soaked a strip of rag in the whiskey and tamped it as deep as she could into the wound, then pulled it out. It was covered in dead black bugs that smeared into an oily mess.

Mae threw that cloth in the fire, and poured more whiskey into the wound. She repeated the process a dozen times until the last cloth came out bloody but mostly clean. Then she packed the wound with herbs that would soothe and draw out infection.

Cedar had long ago gone unconscious.

Mae still talked to him, her voice as much soothing her nerves as his. “What manner of curse do you bear? I’ve never seen such magic used on a man to change him. The old lore speaks of beast and man exchanging skin, but I’ve never seen a curse thrown so heavily, so bone deep.”

She paused, letting her hands rest gently upon his side, well away from the wound. Magic came best with herb and earth and song. A curse was like a spider’s web—silken and difficult to see, but strong and clinging, knotted tight. And this curse was more powerful than she’d ever seen. If she had the right herbs, if she had enough time, and perhaps a circle of sisters to support her work, she might be able to break his curse.

But she had no time, herbs, or sisters’ helping hands tonight.

“I’m going to touch your legs and see if there is blood anyplace else,” she said, giving up for the moment on the magical, and tending to the practical. She ran her hands quickly down his legs, over his back and hindquarters, then drew them up to his head.

He was scratched and bitten on his muzzle and by his eye, and one ear was torn and bleeding. There was a puncture at the top of his head too, and all the scratches and wounds seeped. But there was nothing like the wound in his side, and no other oily black bugs.

“I’ll clean your head next. Mind you, keep your teeth to yourself.” Foolish to bathe a wolf on her hearthstones, but Mae had given up being afraid of him. Oh, she should be, but either the events of the night had dulled her good sense, or the look of intelligence in the beast’s eyes before he had fallen asleep had won her over.

She gathered cup and cloth and did what she could to clean and dress his other wounds.

After an hour or so, exhaustion near stole her breath, but she wasn’t yet done with his scrapes. She reckoned the shallower cuts could wait until morning.

“That’s enough for now,” she said. “There’s still a bucket of water if you want it, Mr. Hunt.” Mae pushed up onto her feet, and locked her teeth against a moan. Pain stitched down her back, her hips, her arms. Not only had that creature torn her up, but she’d also taken a fall from the mule.

She longed to crawl into bed, to curl up and sleep away this nightmare her days had become. But she couldn’t bring herself to lie again in the bed she had shared with Jeb. The rocking chair would have to do. That way she could be on her feet if Mr. Hunt woke.

Mae kept the gun with her and stepped back to the bedroom and pulled off her dress, boots, and stockings. Standing in nothing but her underdress, she pulled the heavy wool blanket around her shoulders and walked out to the living room. The wolf was still sleeping.

She picked up the shotgun where she had left it on the kitchen table, and took it and her Colt with her across the room. She sat in the rocking chair, nearer her spinning wheel than the hearth, and turned so she could keep an eye on Mr. Hunt. She propped the shotgun across her lap, and kept the revolver tucked inside the blanket with her.

She closed her eyes and slept.

The sound of water sloshing woke her.

Mae opened her eyes.

Cedar Hunt—a man and not a scrap of animal left—sat on his knees, the blanket he had been lying on now wrapped about his legs and waist, leaving his wide, scarred chest bare. He scooped water out of the bucket and drank handful after handful.

His hair was wet—he must have poured some of the water over his head—and lines of water trickled down his neck, shoulders, back, and chest, falling along the chain and tuning fork he wore, to drip upon the blanket.

It had been a long, long while since Mae had seen a bare-chested man, and Mr. Hunt was so much lighter skinned than her Jeb, she caught herself staring.

The thin light of dawn pushed in through the shutters, scattering splinters of light over his bowed head and the thick muscles of his arms and shoulders and back. With the sunlight glinting off the crescent moon and arrow clasp of his chain, he almost looked like a man knelt to pray, or repent.

Cedar pressed a palm of water over his face, wincing as he sat back a bit.

He held one arm tighter over the wound in his side.

“Good morning, Mr. Hunt,” Mae said quietly, not knowing quite what else to say.

He turned his head, hung still so that his hair brushed over his eyebrows and dropped water into his hazel eyes. The scratches on his face were nothing more than thin red lines that went pink and healed to new white skin even as she watched.

Must be the wolf in him that healed him so quickly, the wolf in him that looked out at her with such heat, such hunger in his eyes.

“Could I offer you breakfast?” she asked, hoping to spur the man behind those eyes to come forward. “I’ve a bit of bacon and cornmeal, and coffee too.”

He closed his eyes, swallowed, his Adam’s apple sliding along his throat. He needed a shave.

“Did I kill?” Raspy, but the words were clear.

“You did. That creature . . .” She paused, wondering what the boy had been. “That nightmare that looked like Elbert. You saved me from it. And I’m obliged to you. Let me begin to show my thanks with breakfast.”

Mae stood. “It will be difficult to cook with a gun in each hand. I’d appreciate it if you gave me your word I don’t need to worry about your company, Mr. Hunt.”

He nodded once, swallowed again. “You have my word, Mrs. Lindson,” he whispered, still not enough voice to the words. “And my thanks.” He tried to stand, got his feet under him, but his knees wouldn’t hold. He folded back down. He panted, his color white as lye, one arm braced on the floor all that held him upright.

“Let me see the wound,” Mae said.

She didn’t know if he heard her, so she touched his shoulder. He twitched, but did not tell her no.

She pulled the cloth away from the puncture in his side. It was bloody. And pus yellow. Infection.

“I think it best you come to the bed, Mr. Hunt,” Mae said. “You’ll need a bit of rest yet, and someplace better to heal than the hard floor.”

“Fine,” he whispered, “I’m fine.”

Mae raised her eyebrows but said nothing. She knew when a man said things out of stubborn pride. She’d been married for nine years.

And she knew better than to ask his permission. “Up now. Take a deep breath. On three. One, two, three.” She wrapped her arm around his waist and pulled him up onto his feet. He leaned heavily on her, breathing hard, but somehow managed to get his feet moving. With her help, he limped across the room to the bed.

Laying him down was easy, and she rolled him on his side so that she could see to the wound. Pus, blood, and the glisten of the black oil. It wasn’t as clean as she’d thought.

Mae pulled the comforter from the foot of the bed over him, then took herself to the other room, and stoked the fire. She’d need the water to boil, and she’d need to lace it with herbs. Mae pulled the jars she needed from her herb shelf, and finally noticed she was doing it all with the Colt still clutched in her hand.

She glanced toward the bedroom. Mr. Hunt had not stirred. So she set the gun on the table and busied herself steeping herbs and pulling out a length of clean cotton linen for a compress.

When the water was tea brown and the house smelled of the good clean green of herbs, she picked up the kettle and walked back to the bedroom.

“I can’t,” Cedar Hunt whispered as Mae brought in the kettle and poured some of the water out into the washbasin to let it cool before she put the kettle on the floor.

“Can’t what?” she asked quietly.

“Stay. My brother. Wil. The boy. I have to find . . .”

And then his words were gone, replaced by the labored breathing of a fever.

“Rest easy, Mr. Hunt,” Mae said, hoping he was of a high enough constitution to endure this and recover. She didn’t want another man dying so soon. She’d had enough of dying. “May healing come to you quickly and ease your pain.” She blessed the herbs, the compress, soaked the linen in water, and repacked his wound once again.

She would need to get his fever down, and with little else of medical supplies on hand, and certainly no ice, the surest way she knew to lower a body’s temperature was magic.

Magic always leaned toward curses in her hand, so she would curse the fever and give healing more room to take root. She set about the house gathering the herbs, stones, fire, and water she would need for the spell.

Once she had what she needed, Mae stood again next to the bed. Mr. Hunt was shivering, the blankets pulled up to his chin.

“You’ll hear my voice, Mr. Hunt,” Mae said softly. “You’ll hear me singing a bit, whispering prayers and spells. But don’t worry, and don’t wake. I’m going to do what I can to help you heal. And all you need to do is rest.”

Mae set out each item on the bed around Cedar, surrounding him with a piece of each element. Magic was a gentle art, drawn from the earth, sky, streams, and hearth. Mae took her place at the foot of his bed, and held her tatting shuttle, the precious gift Jeb had given her, in her hands. It wasn’t so much necessary for the spell as it was a comfort and strength in her hands.

Mae spoke a word and her chest caught with pain. She pressed her hand against her chest and breathed until the pain passed. She spoke a word again, beginning the spell, and pain once again rattled through her.

It took her a moment before she realized the cause. The binding between her and the coven soil was tightening down. The sisters, and magic, were calling her home. The time she would be able to endure being away from the coven was running out.

Mae took a steadying breath and held the shuttle tight to her heart. She still hadn’t killed the man—the Strange—who killed Jeb. She still hadn’t finished her work here. And she was not going to turn east and leave a man dying in her bed.

Mae began the spell again, continuing on through the pain. There was still living and dying left to see to. The sisters would have to wait.

S
hard LeFel’s crew boss had the men up before sunrise. The constant clang and chug of workers setting the rail, punctuated by an occasional blast or ground-shaking thump from the matics pounding the land into shape, was music to Shard LeFel’s ears.

This would be his final day in this land. Tonight, beneath the power of the waning moon, before another dawn could rise, he would open the door and stroll back to the land where he rightfully belonged.

He was so close to his goal, he could taste it like heavy wine on his tongue, could feel the burn of it beneath his skin, stirring his hunger in ways he had all but forgotten over the centuries.

Death. All he needed to complete his crossing was the three mortals’ deaths.